The Chains That Bind
by EFAW
Summary: "Dude, you are handcuffed around a pipe to me. If you're going to be blaming me for everything, at least get your facts straight." Wesvis, oneshot. Written for CL Secret Santa on tumblr.


**Summary:** "Dude, you are handcuffed _around_ a pipe _to_ me. If you're going to be blaming me for everything, at least get your facts straight." Wesvis, oneshot. Written for CL Secret Santa on tumblr.

**Warnings: **Wesvis. Lots of Wesvis. The boys being themselves with all the baggage that comes along with it.Some angst and emotional pain thrown in, as requested.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**Written for theempathymachine on tumblr for the Common Law Secret Santa. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT EVEN A LITTLE.**

**OOOO**

**The Chains That Bind**

_My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together._

_-Desmond Tutu_

"This is all your fault, you know."

"What? How is this my fault?"

"Hmm, let me count the ways. 'Let's investigate the call before backup arrives,' you said. 'I'm sure it's nothing, probably just a tripped alarm,' you said. 'I'm going in with or without you,' you said. And that's how we walked into the middle of a heist and _that's _why I am now handcuffed to a pipe!"

A pipe rattles.

"Dude, you are handcuffed _around_ a pipe _to_ me. If you're going to be blaming me for everything, at least get your facts straight."

"Oh, I have my facts straight. Like I am _in fact_ going to strangle you if you don't stop talking. Right now."

"I thought you wanted me to apologize."

"I do. And since we all know how likely _that_ is, just shut up."

"You shut up. I think I hear something. Maybe it's backup."

"Oh, thank _god_."

They wait.

"You know, this reminds me of one time when I was twelve with my foster brother Marcus—"

**XXXX**

Backup has to pull Wes off Travis before they can even begin to deal with the cuffs.

The answer isn't pretty.

**XXXX**

"What do you _mean_ they can't come off?!"

The company representative flinches at Wes's outraged squawk. "I'm sorry. The cuffs are only prototypes. It takes a special digital key to unlock them, and the thieves stole it. It will take at least twenty-four hours to make another one."

Travis takes over, because Wes's face is turning a mottled puce color. "It's fine. I can be out of here in no time. I'm pretty handy with a paperclip, you know." He grins flirtatiously at the rep.

She looks down at her feet. "You, ah, you can't."

"Can't what?"

"Pick them."

"…say what?"

"That's what we're designing here." The rep spreads her hands helplessly. "A better handcuff. They're unpickable, unbreakable, and unlockable without the special key."

Wes makes a strangled sound in his throat. An officer grabs him before he can go for Travis again.

Travis scoots as far as he can from his irate partner and smiles tensely at her. "Thanks. A Bunch. You have no idea. Get us that key to us as fast as you can, okay?"

"I'll get right on it." She scurries off."

Travis watches her go. "Oh boy, this'll be fun."

**XXXX**

While they're waiting for the blowtorch, Wes eyes the cuffs. He's seemed to have settle d from his earlier rage, so Travis isn't too worried.

Until he says, "How long do you think it'd take to gnaw through a wrist?"

Travis's head swivels around. "Dude, no, don't bite your hand off. We're not _that_ desperate."

"My hand?" Wes scoffs. "Hell no, I'm not biting through _my_ wrist. I'm about desperate enough to bite through _yours_, though."

"I will punch you in the face if you try."

"Oh, you—!"

The blowtorch arrives before things can get even more heated. It's probably a good thing.

**XXXX**

The section of pipe comes away cleanly. The officer steps back. "There you go, boys."

They work the cuffs through the gap and stand, both groaning as they work the kinks out. It was only an hour and a half, but the floor was hard and the position was awkward with the cuffs.

"Oh, by the way," the officer says, "your captain said if you go now, you can still make it to therapy."

They both groan again, for an entirely different reason.

**XXXX**

They have another problem when they reach the car.

"_Hell_ no, you are not driving my car." Wes glares at Travis's outstretched hand and tries to cross his arms before he remembers he can't. "We'll take a cab."

"Yeah? And how were you going to explain _this_ to the cabbie?" Travis holds up his right hand, dragging Wes's left with it.

Wes yanks his hand back. "I _wasn't_. I don't make a habit of explaining things to cabbies."

"So you're okay if some random cab driver thinks you're into kinky sex stuff?"

Wes flushes. "Why does your mind always go to kinky sex stuff?"

"Most people's do," Travis says.

"I'm pretty sure they don't."

"And you'd be wrong. 

Wes pushes the (ridiculous) topic aside by ignoring it with aplomb. He looks at his car. He looks at the handcuffs.

He tentatively offers, "We could just _not _go."

Travis thinks about it. Then he sighs. "I wish. But Cap's already said we were on the way."

"Dammit." 

Travis shakes his head and sighs again. "Just give me the damn keys, Wes."

"_Fine_. " Wes throws the keys at Travis and stalks to the car. Travis bends as Wes reaches the end of the cuffs' allowance and they both end up tumbling to the ground.

It's going to be a long day.

**XXXX**

Wes climbs over the seat median with that stupid monkey agility and settles into the passenger seat. "You put so much as a scratch on my car and they'll never find your body," he promises.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Travis buckles up and starts the car. He pulls out and pretends not to notice the way Wes is tapping an imaginary brake beside him.

Travis thought Wes was a pain in the ass as the driver, but he's ten thousand times worse as a backseat driver.

**XXXX**

The red brick building looms. They both think about skipping. Unfortunately, they both know that's not technically an option. Without a word, they awkward maneuver out of the car and head inside.

Travis pauses outside the doors. "Gotta go to the bathroom."

Wes rolls his eyes. "You couldn't go before?"

"When was I supposed to go?" Travis asks, tugging Wes towards the Men's room. "When we were cuffed to a pipe for two hours?"

"Shut up," Wes grumbles, which means Travis is right and Wes knows it and just doesn't want to admit it.

In the bathroom Travis hesitates again, dancing from foot to foot. Wes raises an imperious eyebrow. "Well?"

"Uh, I have to…" Travis nods at the stall. "Take a dump."

Wes's face goes blank. "Tell me you're joking."

"Man, I wish I was."

A myriad of emotions crosses Wes's face, none of them pretty. Finally, he settles on disgust. "No."

"No? Wes, I gotta go bad, man. You don't let me do this, I'm gonna crap my pants."

The disgust shifts to revulsion. "Fine. Go ahead. I don't care."

"Really?" Travis does not need to feign his shock. "You realize I'm literally attached to you, right?"

"I don't care. I don't. Hold it."

Travis grits his teeth and pulls out the big guns. "You realize if I do crap my pants, I'll be sitting in _your_ seat in _your_ car before I can change, right?"

Wes's eye twitches and he practically shoves Travis into the stall. "Make it quick, dammit."

**XXXX**

They don't look at each other when they come out. It's a miracle no one else is in the restroom too. Kinky sex stuff would _definitely_ cross any outsider's mind.

Travis washes his hands. When he's done, Wes washes his hands.

Then he washes them again.

And Travis thinks Wes is just stalling—god knows Travis doesn't want to talk into that room either—but then Wes washes his hands a third time and he realizes, no, Wes isn't stalling at all.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, twisted to try and look at Wes's face. "That's like the fifth time you've done that. Your hands are clean."

"Fourth," Wes says through gritted teeth, reaching for the soap again.

And Travis knows Wes gets like this, that sometimes he disappears into the bathroom for lengths of time or goes on a cleaning streak or gets into the Purell extra hard. But he's never been standing here to witness it and Travis is made aware that he doesn't have the slightest idea what to do.

"Is this a problem?" His tone shifts to something sincerely worried (at least, he hopes it comes across that way and not in any way mocking because he's _not, _he really isn't). "Like, do you need me to go get someone?"

"And how would that work?" Wes snaps. He has a point, seeing as one of Travis's hands is also experiencing the deluge.

"Then what do you need?" Because Travis is willing to help, be it emotional support or tackling Wes away from the sink. Whatever Wes needs.

"I'm fine. Just give me a second."

"Okay, yeah." He watches Wes start on a fifth round of washing. "Only, if we don't go now we're gonna be late.

Wes rolls his eyes and easy as can be shuts off the water, like he _didn't_ just wash his hands five times in a row.

Travis stares at Wes. "What was that?"

Wes dries his hands and leads the way out. "What was what?"

"_That!_" Travis waves his hand behind them. "That whole hand-washing thing."

Wes scowls and doesn't look at him. "We're not talking about it."

"It's an OCD thing, right?" Wes's lips tighten; he doesn't say anything. "Dude, I'm pretty sure we _should_ talk about it."

The blonde yanks them to a stop, using the cuffs to haul Travis close. "We are _not. Talking. About. It._ And if you bring it up in there, we're done."

And Travis can tell the difference between Wes's I'm-so-pissed-right-now-I'm-going-to-threaten-to-kill-you-but-i-don't-really-mean-it voice and Wes's I-am-dead-serious-don't-test-me voice. This one, right here, is the latter.

Travis backs off. "Okay. Yeah, okay, we won't talk about it." Wes has boundaries, and Travis pushes them but he knows better than to cross them. Wes extends the same courtesy. It's one of the reasons they work.

"But if you do want to talk," he offers, "I'll listen. You know that, right Wes?"

The other man's shoulders unclench; something in his face relaxes marginally. "Yeah, Travis, I know that."

"Good." And it feels like they kind of made progress and if Dr. Ryan was out here she'd be beaming proudly. But she's not out here and thank god for that. They make a habit of not being sappy in group and that moment felt awfully sappy.

"Alright." Wes shoves the moment aside, faces the doors, and squares his shoulders. "Let's do this."

Travis looks at the handcuffs around their wrists and grimaces. "Oh boy."

Wes mirrors his expression. "Exactly."

As one, they step inside.

**XXXX**

The snickering starts pretty much instantly. It only intensifies as Travis and Wes try to sit—they both go towards their respective chairs and end up tangled. By the time they're settled, Clyde is clutching his side and Dakota and Peter are both shaking silently.

Wes slumps in his seat and wishes he could cross his arms defiantly. "I hate you all," he grumbles. No one pays him any mind.

Even Dr. Ryan is smiling at them, and she doesn't bother to hide it. "This is…unusual. Tell us what happened."

It's not a question.

Travis launches into the tale, accompanied by a lot of hand-waving until Wes yanks their joined hands still. Wes then corrects Travis's story and makes sure everyone knows how much of this is Travis's fault.

When they're done, everyone continues to snicker behind their hands. Dr. Ryan's lips twitch.

"Twenty-four hours is a long time to be stuck together," she says, going for calm professionalism and mostly managing it. "How are you handling it?"

They share a look. "We're managing," Wes says, definitely _not_ thinking about the bathroom incident or how many more such incidents are likely to happen until the cuffs come off.

"Sure, we're great," Travis chirps. "I can't decide if I want to punch Wes in the face or shoot him. But that's pretty par for the course."

Wes glares at him. "And I keep vacillating between wanting to strangle him or bite his hand off so I can be free."

"_His_ hand?" Mrs. Dumont asks. "Not yours?"

Wes turns his scathing glower to her. "Why would I want to bite _my_ hand off? It's not like Travis makes much use of his."

"Getting real close to punching you in the face," Travis says cheerfully.

Dr. Ryan bites her lip and appears to visibly school her features. "That's…good. You seem to be managing as well as expected. And how do you think the rest of your time will go, taking into account your intimacy issues?"

Travis looks expectantly at Wes. Wes grits his teeth and crosses his legs. "I think we'll be _fine_."

"Indeed." Dr. Ryan makes a note on her pad. Wes hates it when she does that. "And you, Travis?"

Travis's expression morphs from glee at Wes's expense to surprise. "Me? I think we'll be fine too. _I'm_ not the one with intimacy issues."

Wes scoffs.

"Hey, you're the one who hasn't gotten laid since your divorce. I'm plenty intimate, all the time."

"Do you need me to spell it out for you?" Wes asks sarcastically, angling towards Travis. "I'm going to go slow so you can keep up. C-O-M-M-I—"

"Thank you, Wes, that's not actually as helpful as you might think," Dr. Ryan interjects. She turns to Travis. "There are more types of intimacy than simply the physical, Travis. Wes values his personal space, but you are both adverse to more emotional kinds of intimacy."

"So?" Travis shifts, and Wes is a little pleased. After all the times he's been put on the spot, it's nice to see Travis on the receiving end for once. "What does that have to do with this?"

Dr. Ryan sighs. It's a lot like a _For two very bright people you're not very smart are you?_ sound. (Captain Sutton has made that sort of sound plenty of times after ill-advised ventures.)

"It does not matter what type of relationship you have, the fact is, the closer you are, in any way, the less you will be able to hide. You will probably learn things about each other you didn't know before."

Wes's eye twitches, and he doesn't look at Travis.

Travis thankfully doesn't mention what happened in the bathroom. "We'll be fine," he says.

It would be reassuring, except Wes has heard Travis being falsely confident and it's happening right next to him.

Dr. Ryan's bullshit-meter has gotten sharp in the time they've been here. She gives them both a long stare and makes another note on her pad. "Good. I'm glad."

Wes isn't nervous by the lack of conviction in her voice. Not at all.

**XXXX**

After the session, once they're settled in the car, Travis taps his thumbs on the steering wheel and stares out the windshield.

"We'll be fine," he says, all false cheer and fake bravado. "Won't we?"

Wes pops open the glovebox and gets out a travel size container of Purell. "Sure we will."

They've been through worse. They'll be fine.

**XXXX**

They make a unanimous decision to put off their reports until tomorrow. Therapy was bad enough. Neither of them want to deal with their coworkers.

After much cajoling, Wes convinces Travis to go to the morgue. He doesn't care what the company rep said, no chain in unbreakable and Jonelle has a new bone saw she's been bragging about.

Jonelle takes one look when they walk in and raises an eyebrow. "Kinky."

Travis nudges Wes. "See? What did I tell you?"

"You've corrupted her," Wes retorts. "Not everyone automatically goes to kinky sex stuff."

"Pretty sure you're wrong on that count," Jonelle says. Travis grins triumphantly; Wes shoots her a look of complete betrayal.

Jonelle brushes it aside, propping her chin on her hands. "So how did _this_ happen?"

They give her the abridged version. At the end of it, she whistles. "Twenty-four hours? That's rough. I feel for you, Wes."

"For Wes?" Travis squawks. "I'm the one stuck to this hard-ass!"

"And you will suffer as you rightly deserve," Jonelle says, sugar sweet like poisoned honey. "But Wes has to put up with you, and no one deserves that." She turns back to Wes. "Of course, I don't know how you stand it when you're _not_ handcuffed together."

"You and me both," Wes says dryly.

"You know," Jonelle says as Travis sulks, "if you want to drop 150 pounds, just say the word. I have this new bone saw I've been dying to try out. Can cut through a femur in 38 seconds."

"Actually," Wes says, "that's what we came here about." Jonelle's face lights up; Travis cringes.

"Really?"

"To see if you can cut the chain," Travis clarifies quickly. Jonelle's face drops.

"Though I will definitely keep the other option as Plan B," Wes adds, and she lights right back up again.

"Let's make it plan M," Travis mutters.

Wes and Jonelle both ignore him.

"It's a possibility, I suppose." Jonelle comes around the table to them. "Depends on what the chain's made of."

"Some sort of alloy," Travis chimes in helpfully. "I think the woman said it was marriage-ing steel?"

"Maraging steel?" Jonelle whistles. "That's tough stuff. They use that on airplane engine turbines. I'd love to help, guys, but my saw would break before the chain did." She gives Wes a sympathetic frown. "Sorry."

Travis narrows his eyes. "Are you sure you're not just saying that to see me suffer?"

"You? Yes." Jonelle shrugs. "But I'd do it if only to set Wes free. I like him." Another shrug. "Sorry, guys."

Wes's shoulders drop. "Thanks anyway, Jonelle."

Travis waits until they're out in the hall to say, "Yeah, thanks for nothing, Jonelle."

Wes shoots him a look, but he can't say anything because he kind of feels the same.

**XXXX**

They meet the two worst people on the way out.

Kate's eyes widen dramatically. "You guys are here? So are we! What a crazy random happenstance."

"Random my ass," Travis grumbles.

Amy takes a step back and snaps a picture with her phone. Wes immediately pulls his arm behind his back—then drops it when Travis's hand comes too.

"What's that for?"

"Proof," Amy says, checking the picture. "Some of us couldn't believe it when the captain said what happened. Got a tip you were here and we just _had_ to come see for ourselves."

Travis feels mildly betrayed. "The captain told you what happened?"

"He may have mentioned it," Kate shrugs.

"And we may have overheard," Amy adds.

"Of course you did." Wes rolls his eyes and starts dragging Travis down the hall. "Go have your laugh. We're going home."

"Have fun!" the two women chorus.

Sometimes Travis really hates his coworkers.

**XXXX**

"Let's just establish right now," Travis says in the car. "What happened back there was your fault."

"No, it wasn't," Wes says, turning the radio to his crappy jazz station.

"It definitely was. You're the one who wanted to go see Jonelle."

"And you're the one who got us handcuffed together." The smell of hand sanitizer fills the car as Wes rubs his hands together. "In the grand scheme of things, it's all your fault."

"It really, really isn't."

"It is and no amount of denial can change that." Wes pops the bottle back in the glovebox and leans back. "Now shut up and drive."

Travis bites his tongue and complies. Not because Wes ordered him to. Just because he wants to get somewhere private where he doesn't have to worry about bumping into any more coworkers. That's all.

**XXXX**

"Let's not stop anywhere else," Travis decides.

Wes sighs. "That's the first good idea you've had all day."

There's a bit of confusion as they try to decide where to go from there. Wes refuses to go to his hotel.

"I won't be seen like this." He waves their joined hands with a grimace. "There may be some truth in that some people's minds—"

"All," Travis corrects, "all people's minds."

"_Some_ people's minds go straight to kinky sex stuff. I won't have my reputation sullied."

"Dude, your neighbors don't last for more than a few nights. Unlike _my_ neighbors."

"Who are no doubt used to the parade of women that go through your door so I'm really not seeing what the problem is."

"The problem is you are a man and you are handcuffed to me and you want me to parade you through the place I live. I _do_ have standards, you know."

"Not many."

"You really want to do this?" Travis gives his partner a once-over. "I suppose it's plausible I picked you up somewhere. You're mildly attractive in an anal-retentive sort of way."

He says it to unsettle Wes. It only sort of works. Wes flushes a little but smirks triumphantly.

"Good. Then your place it is."

Travis walked right into that one. Damn it.

**XXXX**

"These cuffs are a pain," Travis says as he climbs out of the car. "Literally."

Wes glances at his wrist, skin rubbed raw, as he clambers over the seat median. "It's because you keep pulling. Cuffs bite, dumbass."

"Of course that's why, asshole," Travis bristles. "I'm a cop, I know cuffs damn well bite, even stupid unbreakable ones. And you've been doing your share of pulling. I was just saying."

"So stop pulling," Wes says absently, rubbing his wrist.

"Because it's that easy, right?"

"God, you're a baby when you're in pain," Wes grouses, grabbing Travis's hand.

Travis stares at their hands, linked by more than the cuffs now. Then he stares at Wes like he's grown a second head.

"Did you hit your head while I wasn't looking?"

Wes stops fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket and frowns at him. "What? No. Why?"

"Wes. You're holding my hand. _Willingly_."

"It's the most efficient way to keep up from rubbing our wrists bloody. Also, this way…" He tucks the chain between their palms, tugs their jacket cuffs over metal ones, and holds their hands up for inspection. "We can hide the cuffs and you don't have to worry about your neighbors."

"That's really smart," Travis says, a little bit admiring. "I'm not sure I would have come up with it."

"That's because you have a brain the size of a pea," Wes replies, and there goes the admiration. "Come on, let's go already, I don't want to stand out here holding your hand any longer than I have to." He pulls Travis to the apartment building, and Travis must admit, it's a lot nicer this way than with just the cuffs pulling on skin.

Travis continues to stare at their linked hands. They're almost at his apartment door when he says, "This is almost kinkier than the cuffs are."

He wishes he could see the look on Wes's face, because the back of his neck goes crimson.

**XXXX**

There is a brief scuffle in deciding what to order for dinner. Brief, as in, Travis pulls a handful of takeout menus from a drawer, Wes slaps them all to the ground and says no, and Travis proceeds to dial the phone by memory and order Chinese.

"I don't want that. Travis, don't order that. It's not even real Chinese."

"It is too," Travis retorts, holding the phone out of Wes's reach as it rings. "It's made by a little Chinese man with a mustache. Yes, hello?"

There's another minor scuffle as Wes tries to grab the phone, Travis orders as fast as he can before Wes does, and then they both end up falling to the ground.

"It's all fried anyway," Wes moans into the carpet. Then he rethinks that decision and hops up as fast as he can because who the hell _knows_ what's in Travis's carpet.

Travis follows more slowly, grinning triumphantly. "Not _all_ of it. It's fine. I got you beef and broccoli. I know how much you like your vegetables."

Wes makes an aborted motion to cross his arms. "I don't want beef and broccoli."

"Good, more for me." Travis pulls out his wallet, starts counting bills. "I'll eat all the fun, delicious food, and you can have the boring, plain white rice." He pauses. "Actually, that _is_ perfect. Give me fifteen bucks."

"I'm not splitting the cost of food I don't want."

"You say that now but you're going to be hungry later and I'm not sharing if you don't pay."

Wes grumbles, but he pulls out his wallet.

There is another brief argument when the delivery man arrives at the door. See, Travis's door has hinges on the left, which means, if they want to hide the cuffs, _Travis_ will be the one hiding behind the door. But Wes wants nothing to do with picking up the food because it will send completely the wrong impression.

"Do you honestly think the takeout guy cares if you're my main squeeze for the night?" Travis hisses, pushing him at the door. "Just answer it."

"You answer it!" Wes hisses back, digging his heels in.

"I can't! He knows me, I order from this place all the time, and I really don't want him to think of me as the kinky handcuffs guy, okay?"

"But it's okay for him to think of me as the guy lowering myself to sleep with _you_?"

"You're never going to see him again, what do you care? Answer the damn door! And don't forget to tip."

Wes answers the door. The delivery guy doesn't look surprised at all to see Wes in Travis's doorway, either because he's used to random strangers opening Travis's door to pick up food or he doesn't care. Wes makes their interaction as short as possible to avoid any conversation that might illuminate which thought the guy is having and shuts the door in his face.

"You owe me ten bucks," he growls, shoving the bag of takeout at Travis's chest.

"Ten bucks? It was a thirty dollar meal, that's a five dollar tip at most."

"I'm adding another five because you made me do that."

"You stingy hard ass." Travis dumps the bag on the counter, rummages through a drawer for silverware. "Get glasses, will you? Upper cupboard next to the microwave."

The kitchen is small enough Wes can reach even with the confines of the cuffs. There's quiet until the food has been scooped onto plates and they're sitting on opposite sides of the counter, but it's a comfortable silence, because for all their griping right now neither one of them are _really _pissed. Maybe they're just getting used to the situation.

Wes grabs a pair of disposable chopsticks while Travis goes for a fork, struggling to eat with his wrong hand. Their cuffed hands lie between them, fingers almost touching but not quite (because Wes won't let them).

"See?" Travis says after a few bites, "We're fine."

"Never said we weren't," Wes rolls his eyes.

"Dr. Ryan's worrying for nothing."

"Absolutely."

"It's all fine."

"Completely."

Except 'fine' has variable definitions and Wes can't decide which one he's going with right now. They're _managing_ and they'll make it to tomorrow, but he's already let on more than he wanted to and he can't help thinking about what Dr. Ryan said, about how it's harder to hide the closer they get.

Travis drops a piece of chicken into his lap with a curse. His fingers bump Wes's as he shifts; Wes clenches his hand into a fist and swallows.

"Is it possible for you to eat like a grown-up?" he asks tightly.

"What part of 'non-dominant hand' do you need explained?" Travis snaps back, scooping the fallen chicken up and plopping it on the edge of his plate. He grabs a napkin and dabs at his lap with a scowl. "Dammit, why couldn't you be the one with your right hand cuffed?"

"I wouldn't spill in my lap, that's for sure."

"You'd also be the one driving your car, so maybe you'd stop being so pissed and saying this whole thing is my fault."

Wes stares at the top of Travis's head. "It _is_ your fault."

Travis's head comes up. "Are you still on that? You're the one who came in with me, Wes, we both have culpability here."

"I only went in because _you_ weren't listening to me." Wes rises to his feet, jabbing at Travis with a finger. "You had no idea what was in that building, you probably would have gotten yourself shot!"

"They were out less than five minutes after we arrived!" Travis climbs to his feet too. "If we'd waited for backup they would have been gone!"

"Exactly! _You _led us in there, and _you_ walked us right into an ambush! Tell me again how this isn't your fault?"

Travis stares at him. "Are you serious? Are you actually serious right now?"

Wes tightens his jaw and clenches his fists and glares at his partner.

"Seriously." Travis shakes his head. "Man, you are unbelievable."

In hindsight, Wes really shouldn't be surprised at what happens next.

"I just want you to know," Travis says genially, wrapping a hand around a carton of sweet and sour chicken, "This one actually _is_ all your fault."

And then he throws the chicken across the table and right into Wes's chest.

For a moment, Wes can only stand there gaping, staring at the bright red stain and pieces of chicken on his clothes. "Are…you…that…"

His head snaps up and there's murder in his eyes. "You _bastard_. This is an eight-hundred dollar suit."

Travis smiles innocently. "My hand slipped."

"It did _not_."

"No. It didn't." Travis picks up a fortune cookie, crumbles it in his hands, and tosses the crumbs into Wes's hair. "Here. Have dessert."

And there's really only one thing Wes can do to that.

He picks up his plate and throws it at Travis's head.

**XXXX**

After, when they're both panting and covered in food, Wes thumps his head against the cupboard and opens his mouth.

"Don't." Travis holds up a hand. "Just…don't. Say. Anything."

Wes, for once, shuts his mouth.

"Let's just stop talking about whose fault it is," Travis offers. "We're doing pretty well when we're not fighting each other."

Wes frowns mournfully at his ruined suit and picks at a piece of chicken. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

They sit there for a moment. Wes scrapes at a dark brown spot of sauce and says, "I'm not blaming you, but you're paying for the dry cleaning."

"Dude, dry cleaning isn't going to help."

"I have a very good dry cleaner."

"Wes." Travis rolls his head towards his partner, gives him a pitying _You're not thinking this through_ stare. "Babe. We are _covered_ in food. We're going to have to shower."

Wes pales. Then realization dawns and he pales some more.

Travis sighs and slowly climbs to his feet, bending awkwardly because the understanding of what comes next has rooted Wes to the floor. "I'll go get the scissors."

**XXXX**

To add insult to injury, the only dominant hand _not_ cuffed is Wes's. He runs the kitchen shears through the fabric of his suit's sleeve, wincing with every jagged tear, and moans, "Eight hundred dollars."

"I know, babe"

"We could have slept in our clothes, been totally fine. I wouldn't have to cut through my suit to get it off."

"I know."

"_Eight hundred dollars_, Travis." Wes makes a pained sound as he snips his way over the suit jacket's shoulder and through the collar. The fabric falls away, and, grimacing, Wes starts at the wrist again and begins cutting his shirt.

"Hey, on the bright side, I'm not wearing my leather jacket," Travis points out, waiting his turn. "That's less to cut through."

The look Wes shoots him is akin to the face he makes when he's scraping something disgusting off his shoe. "Thank you, Travis, that is so very helpful to me. I feel _so_ much better now."

Wisely, Travis decides not to say anything else.

**XXXX**

The actual logistics of showering while handcuffed are almost easy, once they're in the bathroom and Travis convinces Wes that it's absolutely necessary. And, because Travis is a nice guy and because Wes had to ruin his suit to get out of it (and also maybe because he feels a _teeny tiny miniscule_ bit of guilt) Travis lets Wes go first even though it's his bathroom.

Wes pauses with his hand on his belt. "Turn around."

"Come on, it's nothing I haven't seen before," Travis leers.

Wes flips him the bird and shoves his shoulder. "You _haven't _seen it before. Just turn around."

"This is no different than showering in the locker room," Travis offers, obligingly turning his head.

"Don't peek in the damn mirror." Wes smacks him on the shoulder. Travis sighs and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. There's a rustle of cloth and the clatter of the belt buckle on the floor. "And since I don't shower in the locker room, this is very different."

There's another rustle and the jingle of metal rings as Wes pulls the shower curtain closed behind him.

"Sure you have, I've seen…no, wait, no I haven't." Travis lets his gaze drop down, staring at the closed curtain and frowning. "You're weird, man."

"Shut up."

Travis falls quiet, humming to himself as Wes washes. Aside from a few accidental tugs on Travis's wrist, the blonde seems to get the hang of washing one-handed pretty quickly, and Travis stands there, absently picking at a stain on his pants and trying _not_ to think of the man a foot away, naked and wet and soapy—

There's a clatter of plastic, followed closely by, "Oh, goddamit." Travis perks up.

"Wes? You okay in there?"

"Fine, just…" Tug. "Dropped the damn shampoo."

A leer crosses Travis's face, but before he can say a word, Wes snaps, "Don't you dare make a joke about dropping the soap, I swear to god I will come out there and pour shampoo into your eyes."

"I wasn't going to, babe."

"You were and you know it." Wes pokes his head out with his annoyed stern face on. "Seriously, don't."

And Travis is too distracted by the water droplets beading on Wes's chest and the way his hair is drenched and drooping over his eyes and all he can do is nod.

"Good." Wes nods sharply and pulls the curtain closed again.

Travis has to lean against the wall and take a breath or two. For a man so into his personal space, Wes is being awfully cavalier about a lot of things. First hand-holding, and now this…Travis's heart may not be able to take it.

There's another clatter of a bottle, and more cursing. Travis sighs and bumps his head against the wall. "You need any help in there, babe?"

"I'm good, Travis, I definitely don't need help," Wes growls.

"Sounds like you need help," Travis offers. Another bottle falls down. "Seriously, what are you doing in there?"

"I'm not—goddammit!" Another tug at his wrist when Wes bends again. Travis pushes up from the wall with a sigh and, because he has no shame, strips out of his pants and announces, "I'm coming in," a mere second before he pulls open the curtain and steps in the tub.

Wes lets out an indignant squawk. "Oh my god, Travis, get _out_!" His hands, both of them, sort of flail in the air, like he's not sure if he wants to cover himself or push Travis out or just smack him.

Travis grins and, because it's expected, gives Wes a once-over. "Dude, you are the whitest white boy I've ever seen. We live in LA, how does that even _happen_?"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Wes punches his shoulder. Not gently. "You are _completely_ messed up in the head."

Travis puts on his best innocent face. "You clearly needed some help, and this is the most efficient way to get it done. Like the hand-holding." He widens his eyes, pulling out all the stops. "I'm only following _your_ example, Wes."

Wes's eye twitches and his face goes red and he sputters, because really, he started this and there's not much he can say to counter Travis's logic. Travis's eyes trail down, following the color from start to finish.

"Shampoo. Eyes. Really not seeing the downside here."

Travis brings his gaze back up and grins, ignoring the flip-flopping of his stomach. "I'm just trying to see how far your blush goes," he says, " 'cause it's already down your neck."

Wes blushes a little more and it spreads a little farther towards his chest. "I swear to god I will strangle you."

"You're handcuffed to me."

"I'll do it with the damned handcuffs!"

"Then you'll have to drag me around the rest of the night, and that's a pain so I'm pretty sure I'm safe."

Wes's face is getting a little mottled, switching from mortified to furious. "What are you _doing_, Travis?"

"Helping." Travis puts on his best, most potent innocent expression. "That's all, I swear. No ulterior motives."

Wes scoffs and just barely resists crossing his arms. "I find that hard to believe."

"I swear." Wes's suspicious face doesn't shift one iota. "C'mon, this is the most efficient way to get our shampooing needs taken care of. I know how much you like efficiency."

He sends his charming persuasive grin at Wes.

Wes swallows. Travis tries not to be distracted by the way his throat bobs under the spray of water.

"Fine," Wes says after half an eternity, staring at a point beyond Travis's shoulder. "Because it's efficient."

Travis has to work hard not to let his smile turn wicked. "Alrighty then. Pass over the shampoo."

**XXXX**

Wes is not an idiot. He's actually very smart. He would have figured out the shampooing thing, even with a one-armed handicap. Effectiveness is an excuse. Wes knows it, and Travis knows he knows it.

But Wes allows it. He wouldn't have yesterday, or a week ago, or a year, but today he does. Because Dr. Ryan is right; the closer they are like this, the less Travis can hide. Travis is _trying_ to hide, but Wes is both a detective and very intelligent, and he's pretty sure there's something there.

So he doesn't push Travis out of the shower. He squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his hand, swallows hard, and squeezes another glob into Travis's palm.

He shivers at the first touch in his hair. Travis's hands are big and warm and move over his scalp with a gentle surety Wes hadn't expected. Wes hasn't let anyone get even remotely this level of intimate in a long time.

But it's Travis, and that makes all the difference.

"You, ah." Travis clears his throat but can't quite get the soft husk out of his voice. "You okay?"

Wes opens his eyes and looks, gazes right into Travis's eyes, and it's all there, murky and shadowed but _there_. Maybe it's always been there and Wes just never looked close enough.

"I'm fine," he rasps in a near-whisper. "Everything's fine."

"Good." Travis's eyes shutter, and he licks his lips. "That's real good. Um…close your eyes."

Wes does, and Travis's hands are gentle, so gentle as he tilts Wes's head and rinses the lather down the drain. If it weren't for the handcuffs, Wes would be willing to let Travis do this without Wes participating.

"Okay," Travis says, voice tight. "You're good. So, uh, my turn."

Wes lifts his head, opens his eyes. He catches a breath and forces himself calm.

He has an option here. He can step out, leave Travis to deal with it on his own and deny anything ever happened. Or he can reciprocate and…see where that leads.

He takes a breath. "Hand over the shampoo," he orders.

Travis does, eyes never leaving Wes's face, and it feels like something so much _more_ passes between them.

**XXXX**

After, when Wes is outside the shower and Travis is scrubbing down ("You can wash the rest just fine without my help, non-dominant hand and all, I'll just wait out there until you're done" Wes said, turning all sorts of shades of red and not looking at him), Travis has to take a deep breath. He pushes the memory down, how soft Wes's hair was and the gentle, wanting vulnerability in those blue eyes, and thinks about baseball and sushi and Phil Kronish, because there's shameless and then there's jerking off with his partner a foot away and Travis isn't quite that bold.

"Where are your hand towels?" Wes asks, voice still a little off, and Travis has to swallow against the unexpected jump in his chest.

"They're under the sink," he replies, as normal as possible.

There's a tug at his wrist and the cupboard under the sink opens, and the sound doesn't fill him with apprehension the way it normally does when someone is rummaging through his bathroom (like they belong).

"My god, you don't have a single towel that matches," Wes gripes, and a helpless smile twitches Travis's lips.

He presses his forehead against the tile and closes his eyes.

_I am in so much trouble._

**XXXX**

Travis loans Wes a pair of sweatpants. Wes slides them on as fast as humanly possible, tries not to get too red, and doesn't peek at Travis. Too much.

The crackle-charge comes back when they sit on the couch, first aid kit balanced on Wes's lap. He picks up Travis's hand, slowly spreads salve on the raw skin, and winds bandages under the cuff. He keeps his eyes on what he's doing and tries not to get too distracted by Travis, clean and warm and so very close.

It's always been there, lurking in the air between them, but he's always ignored it. Too hung up on Alex, too afraid that Travis was just playing around.

But now he's thinking he might want to take the plunge, because now he can see how serious Travis is, and it scares him.

It terrifies him. He's never been fantastic at picking up '_vibes_', and Travis is too important to ruin this with a misunderstanding and _what if he's wrong?_

"So," Travis says as Wes is tying the bandage. He sounds almost normal, but Wes is nuanced in The Ways Of Travis Marks, and he's not normal. Neither of them are.

"So how are we gonna sleep?" Travis asks, taking the salve and bandages from Wes's hands.

Wes swallows. Sleeping. He hasn't even thought of _sleeping_. He clears his throat and doesn't look at Travis's face, keeps his eyes trained on dark fingers against white bandages and pale skin. "I assumed we'd be sleeping in your bed," he says.

Travis's hands pause. "Yeah? You're okay with that?"

"Of course I'm not okay with that," Wes snaps, annoyance rising up, and this is good, Wes knows how to deal with annoyance and ire rather than…_that_. "I don't know who's done what in your bed or how many women you've invited there, and god only knows what's seeped into your mattress. But unless your couch folds out, it's the only option we've got."

Travis chuckles wryly. "That's what I like about you, Wes. You can kill a mood in just a few words."

Wes blinks, looks up. "You like that?" He can't tell if Travis is teasing or mocking; as such, he can't tell if he should get upset or not.

"It's part of your charm." Travis quirks a grin that's all fond exasperation. "Not everyone appreciates it the way I do."

"This is your appreciation, is it?"

"Oh, I'm very appreciative," Travis deadpans. He can't keep a straight face, though, and ends up laughing as he ties a sloppy knot in the bandage.

Wes laughs a little too. It's not the sexually-charged tension from before, but it's just as enjoyable. This reminds him of _Before_, back when they were still good together, when they could laugh without laughing _at_ each other.

It's been so long since they've just been _good_, sitting with each other and laughing. Wes didn't realize how much he'd missed it.

"What happened to us?" he wonders.

"We got handcuffed together," Travis says glibly, packing up the first-aid kit.

Wes sighs. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"I know." Travis shrugs, busying himself with the first-aid kit. "But that's not really a conversation we should be having while we're handcuffed together. But good on you, man, taking the first step here. Dr. Ryan will be so proud."

"And will she be as proud of your masterful avoidance?" Wes asks sweetly.

Travis's smile stiffens. "You wouldn't."

"I don't know…" Wes taps his chin thoughtfully. "After all the times you've ambushed me in group? This would be fitting revenge."

"You know what? We should just call a moratorium. We don't talk about what happened when the cuffs are on. Like Fight Club."

"Wow, a five-syllable word. I'm impressed."

"And here we see the elusive Majorus Assholus, striking back with his rapier wit."

"Shut up." Chuckling, Wes shoves Travis's shoulder. "You're not funny."

"You're laughing."

"In disbelief at your absurdity, that's all."

"Sure you are." Travis does something stupid with his eyebrows and Wes laughs again.

They didn't solve anything, but the weird sexual tension is gone, and they're sort of alright. They can always hash it out later.

(Or not, as the case may be.)

**XXXX**

Unsurprisingly, Wes balks when it's actually time to go to bed. For all his talk, and all the moments they've shared, Wes has boundaries and they're kind of jumping all over the lines here.

"We can always figure something else out," Travis offers sympathetically, because he's not a _complete_ douchebag.

Wes takes a deep breath through his nose, visibly steeling himself. "No, it's fine. I slept with my wife for years. This is no different."

There are _so_ many things Travis could say to that. With effort, he refrains.

"This is like that seminar in Topeka," he says instead. "Remember? They messed up our reservation and gave us that room with only a queen."

"I remember sleeping on the floor because you hogged the bed and spending the weekend with a sore back, yes," Wes responds dryly.

"Now that I think about it, I _do_ remember you bitching more than usual."

"No, _that_ was because I was stuck in _Topeka_ with you for two days." Wes puts his hands on his hips, staring at the bed like it's a firing squad. He doesn't even seem to realize he drags Travis's hand along too.

"We can figure something else out," Travis offers again. He's a good partner, he can sleep on the floor for one day if it will make Wes feel better. After all, it is, _possibly_, in some minor way, his fault Wes is in this position in the first place.

(He will never, _ever_ admit that.)

"Like what? It'll be the same either way," Wes growls, shaking their bound wrists. "It's fine. Let's do this." He yanks back the covers and scowls. "We should have stopped by my place so I could get my pillow. Yours is probably steeped in all sorts of germs and diseases."

"My god, you're a pain," Travis grumbles, crawling into bed.

Wes follows him. "Oh, don't even talk about being a pain. I've talked to Jonelle, I know all about how you steal the covers and take up ridiculous amounts of room on the bed. So don't even start with me.

Travis sits up and stares at him. "You talk to Jonelle about me?"

The eye roll is so strong it's almost audible. "You caught us. We sit around in the morgue and talk about you. We call it the 'Travis is an annoying git' club. You're not invited."

Travis continues to stare. "Really?" Because that actually sounds like something Wes and Jonelle would conspire to do.

A pillow comes around and whaps him in the face. "Of course not, you dolt," Wes growls. "As a matter of fact, I enjoy Jonelle's company. Every so often, we get together for coffee and we talk."

"About me."

"You are a common point of irritation. _Occasionally_ you come up."

"Huh. Sounds fun." Travis lays back down, pursing his lips at the ceiling. "Actually, no it doesn't. Jonelle is scary."

"Jonelle is interesting," Wes corrects, squaring his pillow and settling down.

"She knows way too much about poisons and how to dispose of a body."

"_You_ know way too much about guns and how to dispose of a body, but you don't see me complaining."

"Yeah, but…Jonelle." Travis raises his palms to the ceiling. "_Jonelle?_"

Wes sighs, shifting. "She's my friend, Travis. I'm allowed to have friends."

"But it's _Jonelle_."

Wes sighs again, a long-suffering sound of eternal torment. "Go to sleep, Travis. Or I'll tell Jonelle about this conversation and we'll _really_ see how creative she can get."

Travis shuts up and goes to sleep.

**XXXX**

In the middle of the night, Travis wakes up. He's not sure why, at first, and he lays in bed for five minutes, listening to the nightly sounds of his apartment and trying to figure it out.

He's just about given up, and he rolls on his side to go back to sleep when an arm tightens around his waist, and now he realizes. He takes a breath, counts to three, and looks down.

There's Wes, Mister Intimacy-Issues-And-Hand-Sanitizer, snuggled up against his side, clinging to him like a giant teddy bear. And in any other situation it would be cute, but right now it sends his heart fluttering in little panicked spirals.

Holding his breath, he carefully dislodges Wes's arm and rolls his partner back to his side of the bed. Wes makes a soft noise but doesn't wake.

If Wes were awake right now, Travis would be teasing him mercilessly. But he's not, and it's really not as funny as he'd otherwise pretend.

Travis exhales, slowly, and runs his free hand over his face. _Oh boy._

**XXXX**

Wes stares at a mocha shoulder for five minutes, trying to process what's happening here. It takes a while for sleepy, pre-caffeine brain cells to get into gear, but once he realizes the situation, he carefully rolls away from Travis and stares at the ceiling. First Hudson, now Travis…

It's way too early to deal with the fact that he's apparently a closet snuggler, and he's way too in denial to think about what that says about his feelings for Travis.

(Maybe a little less in denial than he was twenty-four hours ago, but still.)

He would just lie there, avoiding waking up and everything that goes with it. Except that's not going to work, and also, he needs coffee. Groaning, he rolls back over, gripping Travis's (warm hard smooth) shoulder and shaking.

"Travis. _Travis_."

Travis's eyes pop open, wide awake in an instant. The bastard. He seems momentarily startled to find Wes leaning over him, but then comprehension dawns at a pace Wes envies.

"Hey, partner, what's up."

"Bathroom. Coffee. Food." Wes frowns. "Not in that order." Coffee first. Definitely coffee first.

Travis blinks, grins. "Yeah, okay." He sits up, and with some maneuvering, they untangle from the covers and get out of bed.

To Wes's disappointment, they do not head to the kitchen first but to the bathroom instead. Wes does not think this is smart. Wes's bladder thinks otherwise.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Travis says, watching the ceiling as Wes relieves himself. "I mean, you're always so awake at work, I guess I just figured you were the morningest of morning people. But you're not at all, huh?"

Wes grunts, too groggy to be embarrassed about the bathroom issue. He finishes up and switches spots with Travis.

"I mean, you were a pain in the morning during the Topeka trip, but I figured that was just because you're an ornery bastard and you were sleeping on the floor."

"Stop _talking_," Wes groans, moving for the sink. A tug on his wrist reminds him why he can't. Wes glowers at his wrist and the innocuous metal chain, like somehow they conspired together to make this happen.

"I, on the other hand," Travis says, continued to talk because that's what he does, he just, he just doesn't listen and he's _always talking_. "I wake up just _fine_, but I hate mornings, you know? I'd sleep 'till noon if I could." He finishes up and flushes. With relief, Wes takes the two steps that get to the sink and plunges his hands under the water.

"It's just funny, isn't it?" Travis goes on (and on and on and _on_). "I'm a morning person, but I hate them, and you don't but you aren't." He grins into the mirror, checking his teeth.

"Gragh," Wes grumbles bearily, methodically scrubbing his hands on autopilot.

Travis just laughs, a bright stupid happy sound. "Yeah, okay. Move over, sunshine zombie, so I can wash my hands. Then we'll see how much coffee it takes to get you going."

**XXXX**

Zombie jokes aside, Wes does feel more alive after a cup of coffee, more equipped to handle what's next. And what's next is, apparently, breakfast. Or some facsimile of.

Wes stares at the orange in front of him. "_This _is breakfast?"

Travis shrugs, peeling a banana. "It's either fruit or frosted flakes. Figured you'd prefer this."

"You can't cook eggs?"

"Of course I can cook eggs, who can't cook eggs. But how?" Travis jingles the cuffs. "I'd probably slop them all over the stove."

Wes turns his incredulous gaze from fruit to fruithead. "_I _can cook, dumbass."

The other man sighs dreamily. "Don't I know it. But you were a zombie until like five minutes ago, I'm a little worried you shouldn't be operating heavy machinery."

Wes rolls his eyes, swallowing the last of his coffee, and stands. "Up. I'll make something."

Travis grins, and Wes gets a feeling that was his plan all along. But he doesn't complain—Travis lent him his apartment for the night and has made plenty of concessions since the cuffs were put on. Loudly, with much complaining, but still. Barring the fact that this is all Travis's fault in the first place, Travis has still done plenty. Cooking breakfast is the least Wes can do in return.

He makes omelets with some leftover odds and ends in Travis's fridge. Travis oohs and aahs over Wes's one-handed egg-cracking ability and hovers at his shoulder like a noisy shadow. It's not as annoying as Wes would have thought. Actually, it's rather nostalgic and comforting. It reminds him of years ago, early weekend mornings spent cooking with Alex, being together with the radio on.

The comparison brings up thoughts of Travis Wes isn't ready to deal with, so he pushes them aside and pours the omelets onto a pair of plates.

"Dude, you missed your calling," Travis says reverently, picking up a plate and leading the way to the counter.

"My calling wasn't to be a cop?" Wes asks, grabbing the other plate and following.

"Heck no. Not a lawyer either." Travis hands Wes a fork and digs in. "You shoul' 'ave bee' a chef."

Wes is both flattered and disgusted. "That's nice. No one wants to see your food, swallow before you talk. Or did they forget to teach you that in preschool?"

Travis grins with a mouthful of egg bits in his teeth. Wes shakes his head and looks down.

Their chained hands are lying only inches apart. A tingle starts under Wes's skin, and he takes a bite of omelet as he thinks.

He's not as impulsive as Travis. This is a fact. He is diligent about gathering as much data and evidence as possible and weighing all the options before coming to a decision. He's seen too many times how being reckless and impulsive can lead to near-disastrous outcomes, thanks to Travis's example.

And it doesn't make a different that this is _Travis_ he's talking about. Or rather, it makes _all_ the difference. Wes has been watching Travis for years, collecting data on every interaction, every relationship, every moment that passes between them. Knowing what he knows, he shouldn't even be thinking about what he's contemplating.

But there was last night. There's this morning. There are a dozen new data points to add to the equation.

There's the look in Travis's eyes last night, flashing for just a second when Wes looked, exposed for a moment before the curtains closed tight and it was gone.

The past twenty-four hours have only given him a handful of moments, compared to hundreds of moments over the past seven years.

It's _Travis_, and Travis is always the one Wes has been willing to take stupid, reckless risks for.

He inches his fingers forward, laying his fingertips over Travis's. A small move, but monumental in importance.

Then he looks up. Travis is watching him, and there's that look in his eyes again, a flicker-flash before it's gone.

And then Travis grins his grossly false _I'm charming that's all you need to know don't look any deeper_ smile.

And he pulls his hand away.

Wes's heart sinks.

**XXXX**

Travis can see the moment Wes's heart shatters. He forces his smile to stay on his face and reaches across the counter for the orange juice.

"Seriously, dude, open your own restaurant. You'll make a killing." Like nothing happened at all.

"What are you doing, Travis?" Wes asks quietly.

Travis knows exactly what Wes is talking about, but he holds up the juice carton. "Pouring juice. You want some?"

"Travis." Wes sets his fork down, and the soft 'chink' resounds like a gunshot. "What are you _doing_?"

"I'm not doing anything. What are you talking about?"

"You're pulling away." Pale eyes narrow. "In _every_ way. I don't know why. It's not like we slept together, your commitmentphobia shouldn't have kicked in yet."

Something tight and sour balls up in the pit of Travis's stomach. He plasters on a charming grin. "But Wes, we _did_ sleep together. You snuggled me like a teddy bear, it was adorable."

Wes doesn't do the decent thing and get flustered. He stares evenly at Travis, jaw tense, and says tightly, "We didn't, not by your standard of the word. We didn't do _anything_. So why are you pulling away?"

"I'm _not_." Travis swallows and tries one last time to deflect with humor. "Kind of hard to pull away when you're my ball and chain." He jingles the cuffs.

"Dammit, Travis!" Wes slams his hands on the counter; the chair scrapes back as he rises. "You've been flirting with me for years, and last night I thought…I _saw_ it. You responded too."

The cold ball in his stomach grows tendrils that spread through his chest. "You noticed my flirting?"

"Of _course_ I did." Wes rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. "I may not pick up _'vibes'_—" (Travis has never seen more sarcastic air quotes) "—like you do, but I'm a detective, not an idiot. It's like getting hit in the head repeatedly with a piece of wood. I was bound to notice _eventually_."

"You never reacted," Travis says weakly, still trying, somehow, to take control of this situation.

"Because I know you," Wes growls, "I know how you are in relationships."

"Then why are you even trying now?" Travis rises to his feet (get on even height and maybe he can take back the conversation).

"Because of this!" Wes yanks their joined hands into the air. "Because of last night! Because you looked at me and I saw…I thought I saw…you…"

It would be funny, how even when he's yelling Wes can't say the words, but it's not funny. It's not funny at all.

"Here I am, practically throwing myself at you," Wes goes on, "offering what I _thought_ you wanted, and you're still saying no. _You!" _He takes a breath, fists clenched, practically trembling. "Explain it, will you, 'cause I can't figure it out."

_This is you throwing yourself at me?_ Travis almost says. He doesn't, because he's not stupid, and also, _yes_, in Wes's _I'm so repressed _body language that little touch of their fingers kind of was a major offering.

He's got a dozen other things he could say, but they're all defensively venomous or deliberately sharp, below-the-belt missiles he's been saving for the fights where neither of them win. He doesn't want to go _there_; he just wants to not be having _this_ conversation.

He bites his tongue and says nothing.

"Let's see if I can reason it out," Wes says when it's obvious Travis isn't going to open his mouth. "It's not because I'm a guy. There was that barista with the glasses, Steve, I saw you get his number last week."

"Wes, you don't want to do this."

"Oh, I think I do. Hmm, you have no respect for the rules on workplace fraternization, so I know it's not that."

The cold dread is spreading its insidious tendrils. Travis shifts. "Come on, man—"

"I know you're at least a little attracted to me. But then, you flirt with everyone you come across, so maybe I was just reading the signs wrong."

"Yes," Travis says desperately, latching onto _anything_ that will make this end, will make Wes _stop talking_. "Yes, that's exactly it."

"_No _it's _not!_" Wes leans on his hands, and Travis has seen that pose before, resting his weight on his arms to keep from punching something. Usually it's aimed at a suspect in interrogation, some uncooperative asshole who's pushed his buttons the wrong way. But there are times when it's been aimed at Travis, because Travis has a bad habit of smashing all of Wes's buttons at once.

"Wes, just leave it alone," Travis asks, and he hates the quiet plea in his voice, he really does because if there's one thing he refuses to do it's _beg_, but of all the conversations in the world he _doesn't_ want to have, this ranks at the top, right next to the one entitled 'Why Did You Abandon Me You Heartless Bitch?' (to be directed at his birth mother, should he ever find her).

"I _can't!_" It's almost an angry wail, torn from deep within Wes's chest and exploding out of his throat. "Travis, I _let you shampoo my hair!_ And now you're saying you don't want it, not that you can't have it but you don't _want_ it and you won't tell me why, just tell me why so I can _fix_ it—"

"It's because it's you!" Travis hollers, jerking away from the counter only to be stopped short by the cuffs, _damn_ these fucking things. "I won't do it because it's _you_."

He immediately clamps his mouth shut, but the words are out there. He can't take them back.

He can't look at Wes's face.

**XXXX**

The thing about knowing someone for seven years is that you don't _need_ to look at someone's face to know how they're feeling, because the very air gets thick and heavy with emotion. And right now there's shock and hurt betrayal and the sharp sting of anger and Travis feels like he can't breathe.

"Because it's me," Wes repeats, carefully flat, carefully blank, carefully controlled. Careful, careful, careful, and Travis closes his eyes. This is going worse than he could have ever expected.

He wanted to nip this thing in the bud, but he hadn't wanted Wes to sound like _that_.

(This is why he doesn't do feelings, doesn't do real relationships. He just fucks them up completely.)

The sound Wes makes next is bitter and pained like Travis just stabbed him in the chest (he kind of did). "I guess that makes sense," Wes says, and now there's pain in his voice too and Travis feels sick. "I mean, you always say it, don't you? No one wants an anal-retentive, over-controlling hardass like me."

Travis's head snaps up. "I didn't mean it like that." Now this is getting out of control in the complete opposite direction, backsliding to everything they were when they fell apart, and Travis has never more wished for Dr. Ryan to mediate between them than now.

"No, it's _fine_," Wes snaps venomously, waving his free hand. "I'm glad you told me. I mean, you have absolutely no standards when it comes to dating, so if even _you_ said no I might as well give up now."

Travis doesn't know what's worse, the dark sarcastic slant to Wes's mouth or the bleak despair in Wes's eyes. "I didn't _mean_ it like that, man."

"Then how did you mean it?" Wes roars, "How could you _possibly_ mean it any other way?!"

"I can't lose you!" Wes keeps pushing and pushing and Travis finally snaps back with the one thing he's been trying to avoid: the truth. "I can't do _this_ with you because I can't _lose_ you!"

Wes reels back, all emotion on his face wiped away by shock. "What?"

Travis runs his hand over his face, takes a shaky breath. More than ever he wishes he could just walk away, leave this conversation and never look back. Or, barring that, he wants to be able to get up, pace and gesticulate and just _put_ a little _distance_ between them. Travis can't handle having this conversation at such close proximity.

"Travis," Wes prods gently, confusion lacing his words. "Travis, just _talk_ to me."

_Talk to me_, Mister Emotional Unavailability says. Wes never wants to _talk_, always deflecting and hiding and avoiding the subject.

The only other time he's said that was that cold day he pulled his gun, trying to get Travis to talk because he could see Travis was out of control and he wanted to keep him from doing anything stupid, and maybe this isn't so different after all.

"Travis," Wes says again, "I am _right here_. Just _talk to me._"

There are things Travis wants to do less, like get eaten by a shark. He wants to close his eyes and go back twenty-four hours and warn his stupid self. _Wait for backup_, he'll say, _because if you don't you'll get your damn heart ripped out of your chest._

But he can't, and he can't get away.

And in the end, don't all of their problems boil down to a lack of communication?

Travis closes his eyes. Takes a breath. _You can do this._ "It's not that I…" He falters, grits his teeth. _Just spit it out_. "I do want this. You. I _do_. If you don't believe anything else, believe that. But I _can't_, because if we do, then I'll lose you, and, and you're the _only one_ I can't afford to lose."

There. It's out in the open and Travis doesn't feel one ounce better. (Dr. Ryan, you liar.)

"Travis," Wes says slowly, after a long moment of silence, "why do you think you'd lose me?"

He opens his eyes, and to his horror he feels tears welling up. "Because that's what always happens."

"What? What always?"

"It's true!" Travis pulls away, can't, comes back. In lieu of pacing, his fingers tap a nervous staccato on the countertop. "That's just the way it _works_. People get close and you start to hope and then they leave and you're left with _nothing_."

It's way, _way_ more than he intended to reveal. Wes is staring at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Travis knows he should stop while he's ahead, but he can't. Wes poked a hole in his defenses and now it's all spilling out.

"We're good," he says, flapping a hand between them, "this is _good_, we don't have to change anything. We don't have to do anything except be _us_, right here and now, and that's _fine_."

Wes is still staring at him, expression shifting to something incredulous. "You're seriously saying that you won't have an actual relationship with me, because you're afraid, for no real reason, that I'm going to leave you?"

Well, when he puts it like _that_…

"It's not as stupid as it sounds." Travis hunches his shoulders, looks at the table. "This is just how the world works. You wish for forever and then you learn there's no such thing."

It's something he learned slipping in and out of foster homes and forging relationships with people he'd never see again. It's relationships that never lasted because he'd always be moving, maybe in a month or maybe in three but always gone again. It's homes that were never his home and carrying all his possessions in a bag on his back and looking for something that would never be there because she gave it up, she left it on the doorsteps of a firehouse and never came back.

It's living in a trailer and having relationships that never last and shying away from commitment because it doesn't matter what they say, there's no such thing, no matter how many promises you make or vows you speak forever doesn't exist, there's only the here and the now and living in this moment.

And right this moment, Wes wants sex and togetherness and whatever else comes with that, but Wes _is_ the sort that believes in forever, and he won't be satisfied with _now_ for long, he'll start looking at the future, and that's when everything will fall apart.

It's not that he doesn't want forever with Wes, because he does. But he knows better than anyone that forever isn't real, and even if it was, he doesn't get it.

Wes sighs. Wes has a lot of sighs. Travis isn't sure which one this is, _I'm surrounded by idiots _or _I'm tired of your shit Travis _or _Go away I want to be left alone_. Travis doesn't know that it makes a difference (but it probably does).

"You dumbass," his partner says, all sorts of weary affection in his voice (so it's probably the second choice). "We're already halfway to forever. _This_ wouldn't change anything."

Travis looks up. "What? No we aren't."

"We are." Wes gives him a crooked smile. "Forever isn't something you just _get_. It's hard work. It's coming back despite how far apart you are and refusing to give up no matter how bad things get."

Travis clenches his fists on the counter (he thinks they might be trembling). "That's not right." Forever is a gift that, if you're very lucky, you get sometime in your life.

"It is. I was married once, remember?" Wes's smile turns sad and nostalgic, the way it always does when he thinks about Alex and the way they used to be. "We didn't last because we stopped trying. You and I, we're different. We're not going to fall apart the same way."

"You can't know that." Travis shakes his head. "You can't possibly know that."

Another sigh. "I _don't_ know for certain." Before Travis can point out how very right he is, Wes continues. "But I can look at the evidence and draw a conclusion. That _is_ what we do, after all."

He reaches out, wraps his hands around Travis's fists. It's such a bold move it makes Travis lift his head again, and he finds Wes staring at him, intent and promising the world in his eyes.

"Travis," Wes says softly, using his _You're so dumb but I kind of like you anyway_ voice. "I already had a chance to leave, and I didn't." He gives Travis's hands a squeeze. "Neither did you."

It's like getting hit in the face because it's _true_. He didn't realize before but this is the hardest he's ever worked to keep a relationship going. He's going to couple's counseling, for god's sake. _Voluntarily_.

Travis lets out a shaky breath, manages a wobbly smile. "Halfway to forever, huh?"

Wes nods slightly. "Just so." He gives another small squeeze. "I can't believe I'm saying this to you, of all people, but if you want to go slow, we can. I'll show you. Forever's not that impossible."

"Slow." Travis smirks. "I've never done _slow_ before."

"Believe me, I've noticed." Wes rolls his eyes.

"So…maybe this could work," Travis offers tentatively. Wes raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "I've never gone slow, and my relationships fail. If we go slow now, maybe this will just keep going and going."

He's still afraid that it's going to fall apart. He wasn't lying before; he can't lose Wes, the thought makes him sick to his stomach. He needs Wes in ways he's never needed anyone. Wes makes him _better_. To lose that…

But they've made it this far together. They keep doing everything they can to stay together. Travis was committed without realizing it, and part of him wants to run for the hills but part of him is determined to stay and work this out.

It's that second part that makes all the difference.

"So does that mean you want to do _this_?" Wes asks, face all hopeful like a puppy.

"Sure." Travis takes a breath, slowly turns his hands over so his palms fit neatly in Wes's. "Slowly."

Wes smiles too, and it's the brightest, most alive expression Travis has seen on his face in a long time. "We can go slow. We can go glacially slow."

"Now, I don't know if we need to go _that_ slow."

Wes laughs, and after a second Travis joins in, and everything feels like it's going to be alright.

**XXXX**

They finish breakfast. It's mostly cold so Wes really just picks at his food before tossing it, but all that confessing and _feelings_ made Travis starved. He eats every bite of his omelet and three fortune cookies.

And then they sit, and they wait. Travis watches TV. Wes flips absently through a magazine and half watches the screen. At some point, Travis reaches over with his right hand and quietly rests it on top of Wes's left, and Wes lets him.

It's slow and subtle and everything Travis usually isn't in his relationships. It's _nice_, and Wes likes it.

It's not going to be easy. They still have their other issues to work through. Adding _this_ to the mix just creates more things to fight over. But they're going slow, and Wes is good at going slow, thinking things through, working out the solutions. He can show Travis how it goes.

This is good. Wes is sure they'll make it. It's just a matter of determination and they're both stubborn people. They'll be fine.

A cozy sort of silence has descended, so they both jump when the phone rings. Travis answers, and there are a lot of "Uh-huh"s and "Got it, thanks," before Travis gives his address and hangs up.

"That what I think it was?"

"Yup." Travis sets the phone on the coffee table, jingling the cuffs. "We're gonna be free in half an hour. They're on the way."

"Good." Wes looks at their bound hands and the length of chain that brought them closer than ever. "That's good."

"Yeah." Travis follows his gaze. The corners of his lips twitch. "Much as I'm glad to be rid of these, I gotta say, it hasn't been all bad."

"No, it hasn't," Wes agrees.

They sit. The TV drones on in front of them.

"You know, we have half an hour," Travis says, turning and leaning in towards Wes. "I have a few ideas on how we could fill the time."

"I thought we were taking it slow," Wes murmurs, allowing his body to list towards Travis's.

"We are." Travis leans a little closer still, breath washing over Wes's lips. "We're going so slow."

"Ah. My mistake."

And then there's not a lot of room for talking. When they finally pull away, they don't go far, lingering close and panting each other's air.

"See?" Travis whispers breathlessly, "Super slow."

"I must have missed it," Wes gasps, "on account of us going so slow. Maybe you should show me again."

Travis smiles against his lips. "I think I can do that."

**XXXX**

They end up making the company rep wait ten minutes while they make out on the couch like horny teenagers. When they finally do show up at the door, mussed and red-faces, the rep gives them a knowing smile and unlocks the cuffs with a wink.

"For the record," Wes says as the door shuts, rubbing his wrist, "This is still all your fault."

Travis grins and leans in, pressing Wes against the door. "I can live with that."

Wes smiles and closes the distance, sealing his soft, "Me too," in with a kiss.

**OOOO**

**I know nothing about maraging steel except that google said it's pretty damn hard stuff. I know nothing about alloys or metals or manufacturing handcuffs at all, really. I have invoked the law of fanfiction on this one.**

**The best way to get the boys to force-bond is to make them unable to get away from each other. Hence unpickable, unlockable handcuffs. The ending got away from me, I don't know what happened. I hope you enjoyed it.**

**Please let me know what you thought. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!**

**Until next time~!**


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